Clurichaun Blues
by Sydde
Summary: When is a wish not a wish but a curse? Will and Henry are on the hunt for a very old and dangerous abnormal.
1. Prologue

A/N this is my first fan fiction story. I began writing it for my teenage daughter and myself, so it is pretty much follows canon. It is also a gen adventure and therefore 'shipper free-don't let that stop you from reading between whatever lines you wish. Currently Unbeta'd.

A/N I am in the middle of a re-write that will hopefully make the story stronger...

Disclaimer: I own no part of the world of Sanctuary or the characters therein. I write mainly to entertain myself.

**Sanctuary: The Clurichaun Blues**

**by Sydde**

**30,000 ft. above Minnesota near the Canadian border**

Gordon Mitchell loved to fly. He was fat, slightly balding, and socially awkward. He habitually wore stained t-shirts, worn-in denim pants that sagged in the rear, and trainers held together with duct tape because "there's still good wear in 'em." He'd left the armed forces when the first gulf war was over, went out for and got his pilot's license. He was hired by the Sanctuary. shortly after that They had needed a pilot who could also handle a gun and was trained for battlefield conditions.

He was closing on 20 years a pilot for the organization's small fleet of cargo couriers. The hours were long, and he had to be ready to fly at a moment's notice to some of the most desolate, most isolated locations, and transported some very deadly creatures. Still, the job kept him off the ground, and that kept him happy.

It was the people he could do with out.

Take this new security guard, David something. Holling. David Holling. Skinny fella, but wiry. And he had that James Dean hair cut and a leather jacket to cover his shoulder holster. Brand new jeans and cowboy boots. Here was a lad who'd embraced the American Dream.

_And_he just would not belt up.

"So, how long you been flying these runs, then?" The younger man leaned against the back of the co- pilot's chair, rapidly tapping his fingers against the top of the cushion." rap-tapa-tap

"Long enough," Gordon grumbled.

"You ever see what was in one of those boxes?" rap-tapa-tap.

"Only once."

"Yeh?" David's face lit up with interest as he looked over at the older man, "What happened?"

Gordon turned and eyeballed him. He held up his left hand. A ragged scar ran down across his palm from his ring finger to his wrist. The fingers were pale and twisted-unusable. "This happened. Herself had to stitch 'em back on. "

"Oh," the younger man said, making an awkward half nod half shrug. He looked around the cockpit idly, fingers steadily rap-tap-taping on the back of the copilot's chair. "So what do you think is back there?"

Gordon swore under his breath, ignored the younger man, and reached for his travel cup. He took a sip of cold tea and made a face. The autopilot was doing it's job, and by rights he should be sitting back with his feet up and nice hot cuppa.

"Well," David continued, "what ever it is, its alive, right? And rare, too."

Gordon sighed. "They're almost always alive... and dangerous. You can tell by the labels, right? The ones marked 'Live' and 'Caution: Wild Animal.' Now will you shut it?"

"Why do you think they'd move it all the way out there, from London?"

"Ignorance and apathy." Gordon growled.

"You what?"

"I don't know and _I__don__'__t__care__!_"

David crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, "Oh that's classic. Really."

"Look, its not our place to know, innit?" Gordon said, and meant it. "We just guard the boxes, deliver 'em, and let the professors deal with the sharp end." This was Gordon Mitchell's own personal Prime Directive, and it had kept him alive, gainfully employed, and flying.

But the younger man wasn't having it.

"You've just got no imagination left have you?" David said. "This is just some sort of mail run-deliver the goods and drive off. Some of these things, well, they're a mystery aren't they? Don't you want to know what they are? Where they came from, what they're worth? Bet they're worth a fortune."

"No I don't," The pilot's voice was hoarse and low, the way some men shouted when they were well past tired and angry, "The things we transport are dangerous, boy. Curiosity killed the cat and that's a fact. And don't come back at me with satisfaction and all, because I've seen it...," he nodded at the cargo compartment in general, "...Kill better men than you and me."

David flushed red and opened his mouth the speak, but Gordon cut him off, "Now, you just get back there and guard your precious box. Be told, lad. And if you really need to pester some one, ask the poor sod comes to pick it up!"

Gordon turned back to the flight controls, and didn't see the look of deep resentment settle across the younger man's features. He did hear him sigh heavily and push himself up off the copilot's cushion.

"Right." the young man said, and slid out through the half open cockpit door.

"...And while you're back there put the damn kettle on." Gordon shouted over his shoulder. He reached under the pilots chair and pulled out a largish silver flask, undid the top and took a swig. "_That lad's not going to last another month at this," _the pilot thought to himself. It was too bad for Gordon Mitchell that he was right.

oOo

David Holling was frustrated, furious with Mitchell, sad sack of burnout that he was. All he'd wanted was a little conversation. The trip had been a nightmare so far. He'd thought the flyover from London had been bad. Hours of nothing but himself and Jeffries that damn pine crate for company. Mitchel had locked himself in the cockpit, only leaving fetch more tea, or piss it out.

Jeffries had been willing to trade stories, play cards, speculate on what their cargo was, and what it was worth. He should have known it could be worse. Didn't he always? The layover at JFK was a nightmare. His first time in new York, and the closest he got was a flyby view of the skyline, a birds eye view of the Statue of liberty.

Then he'd found out that they'd only be using one guard for the last leg of the journey. And then he'd lost the coin toss. This job really did not pay enough. _"Too damn little,"_ he thought, _"Too damn little by far."_

oOo

In the dark of the cargo box a creature like a bundle of sticks wrapped in old rags, huddled. The box was filled with fresh, clean, comfortable straw, and lined on all sides with rowan wood, but it could still feel the burn of the cruel iron surrounding it on all sides.

"What a pickle. What a pickle jar" the thing in the dark muttered to itself. "In it now, me lad, and gone too far. Too far." It rocked back and forth and hummed to itself for a moment. "How to get out. Mustn't go all the way, bring em' to me. That's what I need."

Concentrating for a moment, it let its attention wander. There were men aboard the plane—two men. The one was old and apathetic. There was no want in him to work with, at least none that he hadn't already grown easy with. But the younger man! Stuffed full of the swirling, glorious want of poverty and youth.

"Ah perfect, perfect," the creature cackled softly, "Yes indeed! And nothing softens the mind like a little greed." It began to whisper quiet, earnest nonsense, its voice resonant but soft. In the darkness its eyes glowed green as emeralds, green as clover.

oOo

Holling stood in the back of the cargo plan and eyed the crate in front of him. It was a simple pine crate, but wrapped in bands of iron, and covered in warning stickers in five languages. "_A bit of overkill, that,_" he thought. "_Has to be._"

He hadn't been with the Sanctuary for very long, a year-give or take a few weeks-but that was long enough for him to learn a few things about the operation. Sometimes, just sometimes, the warnings and the stickers and the iron containment bands were just for show. They were there to protect the abnormal, not the delivery men.

"_Must__be__valuable__," _he thought to himself. _"__I__wonder__what__it__is__."_ The nagging curiosity had started as a whisper, like a buzzing behind his ear. But the whisper became a thought, the thought an idea, and now here he was with a hacksaw and a crowbar.

Time to put them to good use.


	2. Raise a Fuss

A/N this is my first fanfiction story. I began writing it for my teenage daughter and myself, so it is pretty much follows canon. It is also a gen adventure and therefore 'shipper free-don't let that stop you from reading between whatever lines you wish. Currently Unbeta'd.

Disclaimer: I own no part of the world of Sanctuary or the characters therein. I write mainly to entertain myself.

oOo

The stillness of the forest was broken by the sound of running feet and of laughter. A young man—hardly more than a boy—dressed in leather breeches and a ragged shirt, dogged around several tree trunks. He leaped over a large tree root and entered the quiet clearing.

In the moonlight he appeared greyhound thin and the light's silver glow painted his features, giving his already narrow chin and pointed nose a pinched and foxish cast. His eyes were bottle green and seemed to glow from within.

Giggling as he panted for breath, he stopped and stared for a moment to get his bearings by the moon and stars. He he twisted in place to peer into the forest at his back tilted his head. The boy grinned, and reached around in his shirt. He pulled out a small silver flask and uncorked it.

"To revenge, some fun, and a job well done," he said solemnly in a light brogue, and brought the flask to his lips.

The grin quickly faded into a scowl. He held the flask out, turned it over and shook. Stared for a moment and then hurled it away "Be-damned werewolf. Bloody shrink!" The scowl flowed into a pout,"Poor me, without a drop ta' drink."

He crossed the clearing and felt around in the underbrush, retrieved the flask,"Chase me up hill and back down. Buggering far away from town," he muttered.

He began pacing off looping circles in the high grass. "Nae drop ta drink but wounded pride." He raised his index finger and gave it a lick, removing a layer of grime as he did, and held it up to test the breeze. "Time to bugger off and hide."

Nodding to himself, the creature took off again, muttering as he ran. His bare feet hardly left a mark as he dashed through the grasses, leaping the occasional clump of gorse. He crossed the clearing and disappeared once more between tall stands of oak and beech.

oOo

Meanwhile, several miles away, two men charged into another, smaller clearing, one after the other.

Will entered the clearing first, jogged to a stop several steps in. He was dressed in tee shirt, hoodie and jeans, and held an iron ring attached to a short length of chain in one hand, a flashlight in the other. He leaned on his knees, breathing heavily and looked around. Trails of crushed grass led off in all directions. Just as he started to straighten up, Henry barreled out of the forest and collided with him.

They both went down in a tangle of limbs, equipment flying in all directions.

"Dammit, Henry!" Will said, keeping his voice down, "What the hell?"

"Sorry, man. Sorry," Henry untangled himself and stood. He stopped to sneeze violently into his left hand, and then offered it to Will.

Will looked up at Henry, and then back at the shorter man's outstretched hand. "Gesundheit."

"Um, yeah," Henry switched to his right, grabbed Will by the forearm and helped the taller man up, absently rubbing his left palm on the leg of his cargo pants. He sneezed again twice in quick succession, reflexively covering his mouth and nose. "Oh man, gross," he said as he pulled his hand away. Back to the pants leg it went.

Will shook his head and snorted, "You're not exactly one with the wilderness, are you?" He bent down to snag Henry's flashlight and his own, both of which had gone flying when the two of them had taken their tumble.

"Hey," Henry said, more than a little defensive, "I'm strictly city wolf, Okay?" He shrugged his backpack back onto his shoulders, and then just shrugged. "Can't plug a coffee maker into a tree, Will."

"Well, you'll probably have to play country wolf, if you're up to it." he handed Henry's flashlight to him then indicated the clearing with his own. "It looks like a marching band ran through here. Possible chased by a swarm of bees. We're going to need your sense of smell functional if we're going to catch the little creep tonight. Here, I'll take the backpack. You grab the ring."

Henry slid the backpack off his shoulders and passed it and the radio to Will. He then proceeded to remove his army surplus jacket and a t-shirt that boldly proclaimed that Han shot first. He shrugged off his shoes and socks and pulled down his pants, stuffing each item of clothing into the backpack as he went. Soon he was standing naked but for an over-sized pair of red swim trunks.

Will arched and eye brow.

"What?," Henry exclaimed,

Will shrugged, "Nothing." then he grinning. "Interesting fashion stateme..."

"I'm just getting a little tired of the naked, 'kay?" Henry cut him off, defensive.

"No problem," Will said, still grinning

Henry nodded, and took few steps deeper into the clearing. He winced and lifted his foot pulling several prickles from his heel. "Ow, dammit. Stupid nature! That's it, no more mister nice HAP."

His eyes glowed yellow, shifted to jade, as his transformation began.

Will put a hand on Henry's shoulder and held up the ring and chain. "Your gonna need this, remember."

Henry grunted and nodded, slid the chain over his shoulders and knotted it awkwardly through the ring. He started running for the woods on the far side of the clearing, and scented the air and surged forward, finished his transformation as he ran. He snuffled back and forth around the edges of the open space, nose low to the ground, then took off at a gallop when he caught the scent. Henry paused and looked back at Will. He whined a question, and saw Will nod in response.

"Yeah, just go," Will sighed, "I'm right behind you."


End file.
